


His Witch

by Art3misiA



Series: When You Left [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, F/M, Heartbreak, Past Relationship(s), Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22639663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Art3misiA/pseuds/Art3misiA
Summary: They had been the perfect couple - or so he thought. Then it all came crashing down and Ron has been left floundering, trying to make sense of life without her.Written in response to a pairing & prompt as part of the Fairest of the Rare's Love Fest 2020. The prompt was in the form of a quote - "I wish you knew how much it destroyed me when you left."Thanks to TriDogMom for her beta skills (I'm sorry I forgot to shout out to you earlier! X)
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Series: When You Left [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1635505
Comments: 47
Kudos: 18
Collections: Love Fest 2020





	His Witch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jess6800](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jess6800/gifts).



> Jess, I've given you all the angst and sadness, inspired by the quote you shared. I hope you like it!
> 
> Written for #LF2020 #TeamAphrodite

Ron sits in a quiet corner of the pub, watching _his_ witch as she laughs and leans into the wizard beside her. He picks up his glass and tilts it to his lips but no soothing liquor flows over his tongue. He pulls it away and examines it. _Huh. Empty._ He catches the bartender’s eye and holds the glass in the air, waggling it in a silent request. The man wanders over with the bottle, fills Ron’s glass again. The only thing that is full these days, it seems, is the glass. Until it’s empty. Like his soul. 

His heart was full, once. He had a witch he loved, and she loved him too. That was all that he needed. Now, his heart is empty. Broken. He needs to fill himself with _something_ , and these days, liquor seems to be the only thing that fills him up. Or maybe it’s that the sensation of drunken oblivion just numbs the emptiness Ron feels. He’s not sure. There was only one thing he was ever sure about - that one day, he and Hermione would get married, have a family. Maybe not as big a family as his parents had, but a family nonetheless. But, it wasn’t to be. 

They enjoyed three happy years together. The best three years of Ron’s life. Nothing that had worried him in the past mattered to him then, as long as his witch was by his side. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t as smart as Percy; or as inventive as Fred and George; that he wasn’t an athlete like Ginny; or that he didn’t have an exotic, exciting job like Bill and Charlie. It didn’t matter that he was the ‘average’ one in the Golden Trio. None of these things mattered to Ron, because he was with the love of his life. She had chosen him, and that in itself was his great achievement. Three years. Then, six months ago, she was promoted. Soon after, he, Ron, had been demoted from boyfriend to ex.

“Excuse me, but are you Ron Weasley?” 

A breathy, feminine voice pulls him from his thoughts. A blonde witch is leaning on the table, her palms on its surface. Her top is low cut and offers a generous view of her cleavage. Another one, fawning over him. His name, at least, is famous, if not his brains or his bravery or his magical skill. In another life, he’d have been a nobody, but in this life he’s best friends with Harry Potter, and therefore he enjoys fame by proxy. Even when he was with Hermione, witches would throw themselves at him, much to her annoyance and his embarrassment.

Now that he’s single, they throw themselves at him with even wilder abandon. Ron is quite certain that, if he were so inclined, he could have a different witch warm his bed every night. As it is, he rarely declines their advances. It does nothing to fill the void, but when he’s balls-deep in a woman, with her crying out his name in pleasure, he can close his eyes and pretend she’s someone else. Someone with wild, curly brown hair and a bossy voice. A time or two, he’s accidentally called out her name, which makes for an awkward moment. 

This witch standing before him is no different, and he acknowledges her with an enthusiasm he doesn’t really feel. “Yes, I am,” he replies. “May I ask your name?”

“I’m Celine,” she giggles. “I can’t believe I’m actually meeting _the_ Ron Weasley!”

Ron cringes internally at her shameless gushing. He used to sort of enjoy it - the attention - despite the tension it would cause between him and Hermione. It was nice to be recognised, to have people ask for your autograph or a photo. But now, it just serves to remind him that no matter how beautiful or willing they are, they really only like him because he’s famous. If it weren’t for his connections, none of them would give him a second glance. The knowledge makes him bitter. There were only ever two witches who liked Ron for who he was, rather than who he knew. One of them is across the room from him now, gazing adoringly up at the wizard who stole her heart; and the other is dead, mauled by Greyback at the battle of Hogwarts.

He considers telling the witch to bugger off and leave him alone. But no, he’s known as a warm, approachable and amiable wizard. He has a reputation to maintain, even if inwardly he now understands why Harry has always hated the spotlight. It’s so _suffocating_.

“Won’t you sit down?” he invites, with a warm smile and a wave of his hand at the seat opposite him.

“Ohhh! I’d _love_ to!” she squeals, sliding into the booth. The sound hurts his ears. Why are they so _screechy_? 

“Would you like a drink?” he offers. She nods, and he waves the bartender over again to take their orders. He asks for a refill, while she requests champagne. _Of course._ They always do. He’s Ron Weasley. He’s got Galleons to rub together — he’ll pay, like a proper gentleman. Their drinks come. She prattles on and on about inconsequential bullshit, and Ron nods along, making all the right sounds in all the right places.

Several drinks later, they’re leaving the pub together. She’s giggly and tipsy, and he’s laughing too loud to cover the fact his heart isn’t in it. He glances over his shoulder as they exit. She’s watching him. He knows she doesn’t approve of his promiscuity. Ron’s lip curls in a sneer. What’s it to her? She rejected him. Who he fucks now, how often and in how many, is none of her Merlin-be-damned business. Pulling the witch - whose name he has already forgotten - tighter against him, he steps out onto the street and Apparates them to his flat.

The days roll into weeks and months. More faceless witches, too much alcohol. Everything’s a blur. It’s been nearly a year since Hermione was promoted to Head of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. As he sits alone in the kitchen of his flat, a glass of whiskey in his hand, Ron’s mind drifts back to the night that signalled the beginning of the end of his happily ever after.

_She came home with an excited flush in her cheeks. “Ron, I got it! I got the job!” she cried excitedly. He embraced her, kissing her forehead and murmuring his congratulations. She had been working towards this goal ever since she first gained a position in the department after finishing her final year at Hogwarts._

_At first, very little seemed to have changed. But then she was working longer days, travelling more often. He barely saw her. They began to argue about it, occasionally at first, and then with increasing frequency. That was the start of the death knell of their relationship. But what put the final nail in the proverbial coffin was James Woodhouse, a bloke from the DMLE who worked in legislation. He and Hermione collaborated frequently on cases, and he was just as enthusiastic as she about the rights of magical creatures of all kinds._

_Hermione was adamant she had never cheated on Ron with James, and he believed her. But once she met him, there had been no saving their relationship. Just a few months after her promotion, she came home and sat him down._

_“Ron, we need to talk.”_

_He’d known as soon as those words fell from her full, pretty lips. Hell, he’d known it was coming for weeks, now. It had just been a matter of when._

_“You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” he asked. His tone was harsher than he’d intended, and she flinched back from him._

_“Yes,” she whispered, not willing to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, Ronald.”_

_“I’m sorry, too,” he said, more softly._

_Without another word, she got up, packed what belongings she cared to take with her, gathered Crookshanks under her arm, and walked out of his life._

_Ron sat in shocked silence for some unknown length of time after she left. Then he smashed every breakable item in the flat. Then he broke down and wept, huddled on the floor, a bottle of firewhisky in his hand._

A tapping on his window pulls Ron from his depressive thoughts. There’s an owl waiting, with a fancy-looking letter in its beak. He lets it in, feeds it a treat, and takes the envelope. The owl flies off as he breaks the seal. His eyes scan the first page, and his stomach clenches. He rushes to the sink, sure he’s going to vomit. He gags, but nothing comes up. Turning back to the piece of paper in his hand, he’s overwhelmed with a sense of hurt and disbelief. After everything that’s happened, and knowing how he felt - still feels - about her, _why_ would she invite him to her wedding?

Ron notices a second piece of paper behind the first, smaller and plainer than the invitation. He lifts it to his eyes and begins to read.

_Dear Ron,_

_I struggled to decide whether or not to send you this invite. I know the past year has been hard for you, and that you’re still hurting. I deeply regret that I am the source of that pain, but to have stayed with you, as I’ve tried to explain previously, would have been doing you a disservice. You deserve a witch who can truly, deeply love you and wants the same things you want, and I could no longer fill that role._

_In the end, even though we are estranged, I still consider you to be one of my dearest friends. I know that sounds jarring, perhaps even condescending, but it’s the truth. And, as one of my dearest friends, it is my sincere hope that you will be able to forgive me enough to attend. Of course, I will understand completely if you cannot._

_Please, either way, let me know your intentions._

_Love, Hermione_

Ron sighs and shakes his head. How could she do it? How could she truly think that he would see her gesture as anything but an insult? As rubbing her happiness in his face? He scowls and screws up the letter and the invite. Dropping them, and the envelope, into the sink, he casts an _Incendio_ , turning them to ash. Returning to the table, he picks up the bottle and drinks.

Three weeks later, there’s a knock at his door. Ron goes to answer it, and feels an uncomfortable jolt in his chest when he comes face to face with Hermione. He examines her face closely. She’s afraid. Why? He may be angry and heartbroken - the very sight of her causes his heart to bleed with pain - but he’d never hurt her, never lash out. He’s better than that. 

“What do you want, Hermione?” he asks, a hard edge to his voice.

“You didn’t respond,” she says quietly, her fingers twisting nervously.

Ron sighs harshly. He wants to shout at her, but he knows it won’t achieve anything. “Did you seriously think I would?” he questions. “It was like a slap in the face. I know you meant well, but that’s all it was. A slap in the face.”

Hermione flinches, as if he had slapped _her_ , and her lip wobbles.

“I take it you won’t attend, then?” she replies.

“No.” He says shortly.

“I understand,” she whispers. Her eyes are wet with unshed tears, and it hurts his heart. He wants to pull her into his arms and comfort her, but he can’t. She’s not his witch any more. After a moment of awkward silence, she turns to go. He calls her back.

“I wish you knew how much it destroyed me when you left,” he tells her.

“I do,” she insists. “I _do_ know, and I regret how much I hurt you every day.”

“You don’t know,” he says heavily. “You can never know. And that’s why we can never go back to what we were before we dated. It’s best if you don’t contact me again.”

The tears finally spill over her cheeks, rolling down her face in thin streams. She nods, acknowledging his request.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs, her voice hitching. It makes him feel like he will shatter into tiny pieces at any moment. “Goodbye, Ron.” she turns and hurries away down the hall, gasping, with one hand to her face.

Ron manages to shut the door before his legs collapse. His chest heaves. He can’t breathe. He curls in on himself, keening. His witch is lost to him forever.

  
  
  
  


  
  



End file.
